BlackMoney and the Judas Twins
by Padre Pio
Summary: This story’s about greed, desire, love, and death: in the world of merchants you get them all.
1. Chapter 1

BlackMoney and the Judas Twins

by Padre Pio

CHAPTER I

_This story's about greed, desire, love, and death---in the world of merchants you get them all._

JUST WHEN I WAS about to enter paradise the phone rang. Knowing it would be Knuckles, I pushed her into the bathroom, and turned all the taps on.

"What the hell's that noise?" Knuckles sounded tipsy as usual.

"You interrupted again, Knuckles," I said wearily.

"How am I to know you're on the nest?" he said, crossed.

The nest was Madame Rosemerta's Inn in Morroc. A convenient place for travelers looking for a night's rest and er, some pleasures too. What pleasures? Any kind.

"What is it?"

"Got somebody for you," he said.

I was all ears. You know that tingling a sexy promise gives? Double it for boss hunting. Treble it for castle sieging. And for merchant dealers like me hearing of a customer, multiply it by infinity to get somewhere near the drive that forces a man over every conceivable boundary of propriety, common sense, reason---oh, and law. I almost forgot law. I'd been on the nest two days with Kara (was she Kara, or was that last Thursday? I couldn't remember) and here I was quivering like a fresh novice encountering a poring first time. All because one of my scouts was phoning in with a bite.

Scouts? We call them barkers in the merchant trade. They're actually novices who, for some unknown reasons, failed to pass the test required by the Merchant Guild for aspiring merchants. Well. Life ain't all honey.

A master-merchant has scouts, people who will pass information his way. Knuckles was one of mine. I have three or four, depending on how rich I am feeling at the time, paid on commission. Knuckles was the best. Not because he was much good, but because he was loyal. And he was loyal because he judged every deal in terms of whisky. Or gin. Or rum.

"Buying or selling?" I said, quite casual. Twenty years in the merchant trade, and my hands sweating because a barker rings in. It's a right game.

"Buying."

"Big or little?"

"Big."

"You having me on, Knuckles?" That stupid whore was banging on the bathroom door wanting to be let out.

"I swear on my mother's tits, BlackMoney," he said, followed by a wheezing laugh. All right, all right. I was born with the name. Still, you can't forget BlackMoney Consortium, Inc., can you? The "Inc." bit was pure invention, brilliance. It sounds posh, reeks of zennies and high-flying Pronteran banking firms backing that knowledgeable merchant genius BlackMoney.

"Can you hang on for a moment?" I asked.

"Eh? Oh, sure."

I dropped the receiver, crossed to open the bathroom door. There she was, trying to push past me into the room, blazing.

"What the hell do you mean---?" she was starting to say when I gave her a shove. Down she went to the bathroom floor amid the cascading water.

"Now," I explained carefully, "silence. SI-LENCE. Got it, love?"

She rubbed her arm, her eyes glazed at the enormity of these events.

I patted her cheek. "I'm waiting," I said. "Got it, love?"

"Yes." Her voice barely made it.

"I've got a deal coming in. So shut your teeth. Sit there and listen to all my lovely water going to waste."

I slammed the door on her, locked it again, and found Knuckles hanging on by the skin of his alcohol-soaked teeth.

"Big? How big?" I demanded.

"Well..."

"Come on."

"B and six Y's," he said shakily.

My scalp, already prickling and crawling, gave up as the magic code homed in.

"Shoot me, Knuckles."

"Honest, BM. Odin's truth."

"In this day and age?"

"Large as life, BM. Look, this guy's real. He's here now."

"Where?"

"At the Lane."

Prontera Mercantile Lane, that constantly noisy and bustling broad avenue on the center of Prontera lined with rows and rows of merchant shops and stores. A hell place for many. Seventh paradise for me.

My mind took off. Noghaltz computers aren't in it. Speed they've got and memory too, so people say. I have both those attributes and a bell. This bell's in my chest. Put me within a hundred feet of a genuine merchandise and it chimes, only gently at first, then a clamor as I get nearer the real thing. By the time I'm touching it I can hardly breathe because my bell's clanging like hell. It's never been wrong yet. Don't misunderstand---I've sold some rubbish in my time. And lies come as natural to me as winking at a whore. After all, that's life, really, isn't it? A little half-truth here and there, with a faint hint of profit thrown in for good measure, does no harm. And I make a living mainly from greed. Not my greed, you understand. _Your_ greed, his greed, everybody's greed. And I want no criticism from self-righteous members of the indignant _honest_ old public, because they're the biggest school of thiefbugs on this kingdom. No? Listen:

Say you're about to go to a wedding wearing a black old tuxedo. In comes a stranger. He's heard of your old---or indeed your _new_---tuxedo. Could it be, he gasps, that it's the one and only tuxedo worn by that celebrated bard, Dariush Kabir, during his last concert in the Prontera Hippodrome? Good heavens, he cries, clapping his eyes on it in ecstasy. _It is!_

Now, you put your pipe down, astonished. What the hell's going on? you demand. And who the hell is this stranger butting into your house? And what's he babbling about? And---_take your hands off my tuxedo!_

With me so far? Good.

The stranger, confronted with your indignation, turns sincere and trusting eyes to you. I've searched all my life, he explains. For what? you demand suspiciously. For Dariush Kabir's famous old black tuxedo, he confides. And here it is, at last. It's so beautiful. My lifelong search is over.

See what I'm getting at? At everybody's dishonesty. At mine. And at yours. No? _Yes!_ Read on.

Now, if I were a trusting soul, I'd leave you to complete the story, give it a proper ending, so to speak. How you smile at the stranger, explain that the tuxedo's only a secondhand piece of clothing you were able to haggle for only 1k from an aging merchant in Alberta, and how in any case Dariush Kabir, who is pretty famous for wearing next to nothing during performances, was the last bloke on earth ever to wear a tuxedo, and how you kindly tell the misguided stranger to excuse you as you're already late for your friend's wedding. But you can't be trusted to end the story the way it really would happen! And why? Because the stranger, with the light of crusading fervor burning in his eyes, reaches for his purse and says those glorious magic words---_How much?_

Now what's the real ending of the story? I'll tell you. You caress your---_no, Dariush Kabir's!_---tuxedo, brush it down gently, lead the stranger to a soft cushioned chair, and prattle on that you're the celebrated bard's last living descendant. And you just manage to stifle your poor little innocent daughter as she looks up from the _Who's Who_ magazine and tries to tell the visitor that Dariush Kabir only wore thongs during performances, and send her packing to bed so she won't see her honest old dad swindling this stupid bum for every zeny he can.

Convinced? No? _Then why are you thinking of that old jacket in your closet?_

Where was I?

Knuckles. B and six Y's, and he'd sounded frantic. One million.

B and six Y's? Look in any merchant shop. Casually, you'll find yourself wanting some lovely little item, say an original geffenian silk Sunday Hat. The more you look the more you want it. So you searched it for the price and find a little ticket tied on marked NMKYYY/900k, or some such.

We merchants use codes, all very simple. One of the most elementary is that based on a letter-number transposition. Each code has a key word---consider mine, BLACKMONEY. Note that it has ten letters. For B read 1, for L read 2, and so on to E, which is 9. For Y read not 10 but zero, because you already have a letter to denote 1. So the geffenian silk Sunday Hat you fancied is actually priced at 865k. There are several ten-letter codes. A quick look around tips you off.

One further point. K is often used to denote thousands. That way, the customer thinks the ticket is something mysterious to do with bookkeeping or identification. Think again. When in doubt, it's zenny. The code price marked is often what the merchant paid for the Sunday Hat plus freight-in charges, so naturally he'll stick a fifty percent mark up, if not more. So my tip is: Argue. And never ever pay the marked price, not even if the merchant offers an immediate discount. When haggling, don't be civil. Take your time and look doubtful. Spin it out and then, as gently and sincerely as you possibly can, barter. 

"Look, Knuckles," I said, not daring to believe him. One million indeed. _Oh, boy._

"I know what you're going to say, BM," he said, desperate now.

"You do?"

"Trade's bad. Profits are bad. Finds are bad. Everything's bad."

Like I said, some are psychic.

"Who's got one million these days?" I snapped.

It's up to you, BM," he said, crushed. 

"Where's the guy?"

"Holgrehen's Pub."

Yet something was not quite right. It was too good to be true.

"How did he know you?"

"Came in looking for barkers and master merchants. Somebody in the Lane told him we used this pub."

To ask after reliable merchants---and I'm the most reliable of all known merchants, honest---was reasonable and sounded open enough. He was a legitimate buyer all right.

"What's he after?"

"Guns. Right up your street."

My heart almost stopped. Gunslinger weapons were my specialty.

"Any kind?"

"Duelers."

"All right." I suddenly decided. A chance was a chance. And buyers were what it was all about. "Hang on to him, Knuckles. I'll be there in an hour."

"Will do," Knuckles said happily, shutting off.

I put the receiver down. To my surprise the water taps were running and the bathroom door was shut. I opened up and there was this blonde, somewhat soaked, and sulking amid the dribbling water.

"What the---?" I began, having forgotten about her.

"You pig," she said, cutting loose with the language.

"Oh, I remember." She'd been making a raucous while I was on the phone. "You're Kara."

She retorted, "You pig."

"I'm sorry," I told her, "but I have to go to Prontera. Can I drop you somewhere?"

"You already have," she snapped, flouncing past me and snatching up her things.

"It's just that there's a buyer turned up."

She took a swing at me.

I ducked. "Have you seen my kafra tickets?"

"Have I hell!" she screamed, rummaging under the bed for her shoes.

"Keep your hair on." I tried to reason with her, but women can be very insensitive to the real problems of existence.

She gave me a burst of tears, a few more flashes of temper, and finally the way women will began an illogical assault on my perfectly logical reasons for making her go. "Who is she?"

"That 'she' is a macho man," I told her. "A buyer."

"And you prefer a buyer to me. Is that it?" she blazed.

That's women for you. Anything except themselves is a waste of time. Very self-centered, women are.

"Yes," I said, puzzled at her extraordinary mentality.

She went for me, throwing handbag, a shoe, and a pillow as she came, claws at the ready. I gave her an open-fist below the stomach to calm the issue somewhat, at which she settled weeping while I found a coat. I'm all for sex equality. An eye for an eye, as what Father Odin commands.

"Look, help me to find my kafra tickets," I said. "If I don't find them I'll be late." Women seem to have no sense sometimes.

"You hit me," she sobbed.

I let out a sigh. Here we go again.

"All you think of is zenny," she whimpered.

"It isn't!" I said indignantly. "I asked about your holidays yesterday."

"In bed," she cut back viciously. "When you wanted me."

_Oh, boy._ I ignored her, ransacking the drawer where my sales and purchase records are kept. "Look for tickets. They were here the day before."

I found them at last, inside a photo album, sandwiched between the glossy pictures of a merchant happily pistoning a priestess and of the same merchant doing sixty-nine with a huntress. _Oh, boy._ I hastily closed the album, flushed.

"Look, love," I said hastily. "See you soon."

"What am I to do now?" she complained, coming after me.

"Go home, there's a good girl." I said, handing her a kafra ticket.

"You pig, BlackMoney," she wailed.

I smiled at her.

"When will I see you?" she called after me as I trotted toward the door.

"I'll give you a ring, love," I said over my shoulder.

"Promise?"

"Honestly."

I heard her shout something else after me, but by then I was through the door and trudging the sandy streets of Morroc.

Women have no sense of priorities. Ever noticed that?

chapter II coming up... comments are higly appreciated


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER II

PRONTERA MERCANTILE LANE, fifty-seven minutes later. As usual, the whole avenue was swarming with people. I labeled everybody in there with a swift glance: Albertan merchants with their---wily, sorry---charming smiles, Geffenian nobles with swishing robes and jingling zennies, Pronteran ladies with stiff necks and social pretensions, and of course---Morrocan thieves. The latter do not belong to the class of humans. They're more like a pack of vermin, the scourge of humanity, so to speak.

I elbowed my way to Holgrehen's Pub. It was further up the Lane, near the big fountain. The pub was crowded. There were a dozen locals, including this whore of about thirty-six sitting stylishly on a barstool and showing her shapely thighs to the assembled multitude. We had been, er, friends once---twice, to be honest. I gave her a wink, to which she returned a cold smoke-laden stare. _Oh, boy._ Back to level one, BlackMoney.

Three merchants were also there: Roofie, stout, balding, and Morrocan weaponry; Julia, thirtyish, shapely---would have been desirable if she hadn't been a merchant dealer---blond, slim potions and boss monster items; and finally, Milkshake, sex unknown, elegant, pricey, and mainly ladies wear and headgears. There were four strangers, Izludean by their smell, and a barker or two chatting them up and trying to interest them in _genuine_ gem stones which, in reality, are mere round pebbles coated with morrocan dyes. Pathetic.

Knuckles was in the far corner by the fireplace with this middle-aged chap. I forged my way over.

"Oh," Knuckles said, acting like a ninth-rate soap opera actor he is. "Oh. And here's my friend BlackMoney I was telling you about."

"Evening, Knuckles" I nodded at the stranger and we shook hands.

He seemed fairly ordinary, round glasses, neat, nothing new about his clothes but not shabby. He could have saved up ten thousand zen all right. But one million...? _Oh, boy._

"Mr. Hyrcanus, meet BlackMoney." Knuckles was really overdoing it, almost wagging like a dog. "Mr. Hyrcanus is a professor of arcane philosophy at the Juno Institute of Divine Magic." The stranger nodded. We said how do and sat.

"My turn, Knuckles, from last time," I said, giving him a 1k bill to shut him up. He was off to the bar like an arrow.

"Mr. Knuckles said you are a specialist merchant, Mr. BlackMoney." Hyrcanus' accent was Geffenian, southern if I'm not mistaken.

"Yes," I admitted.

"Very specialized, I believe?"

"Yes. But of course," I dodged as casually as I could manage, "from the way the trade has progressed in the past few years, I maintain a pretty active interest in several aspects."

"Naturally," he said, all serious.

"But I expect Knuckles has told you where my principal interest lies."

"Yes."

My mind took an immediate assessment of the guy, much like a Noghaltz scanner analyzing a physical data. This prof was no collector. In fact, if he knew a double-barrel repeating rifle from a walking stick it was lucky guesswork.

Barkers like Knuckles are creatures of form. They have to be, if you think about it. They find possible buyers who are interested, say, in picking up a genuine Hugel-made kinjal. Now, a barker's job is to get clients: buyers or sellers, but preferably the former. He has no right to go saying, Oh, sorry, sir, but my master-merchant's only interested in buying or selling hunter gears and equips. If a barker did that he'd get the push, force retirement, so to speak. So whatever the buyer wants, a barker will swear on his mother's tits that his master-merchant's got it, and not only that, but he will swear blind that his master-merchant's certainly the world's most expert expert on Hugel-made kinjals or whatever, and throw in a few choice remarks about how crooked other merchants are, just for good measure.

"Mr. Knuckles has a very high opinion of your qualities," Hyrcanus informed me. See?

"That's very kind." If Hyrcanus got the irony it didn't show. Professors are the most difficult people to draw out.

"You made a collection for the King Tristam III Memorial Museum, I understand, Mr. BlackMoney."

"Oh, well." I winced inwardly, trying to seem all modest. I determined to strangle Knuckles. Even innocent customers know how to check that sort of tale.

"Wasn't it last year?"

"You must understand," I said hesitantly, putting on as much embarrassment as I dared.

"Understand?"

"I'm not saying I have, and I'm not saying I haven't," I went on. "It's a client's business, not mine. Even if Lord Fondlemay _did_ ask me to build up his collection of exotic headgears, it's not for Knuckles or myself to disclose their interests." May I be forgiven.

"Ah. Confidentiality." His brow cleared.

"It's a matter of proper business etiquette, Mr. Hyrcanus," I said with innocent seriousness.

"I do see," he said earnestly, lapping it up. "A most responsible attitude."

"There are standards we merchants follow." I shrugged to show I was positively weighed down with conscience. Maybe I was overdoing it, because he went all broody. He was coming to the main decision when Knuckles came back with a rum for me and a pale ale for Hyrcanus.

I gave Knuckles a sharp stare and he instantly excused himself.

"So it _is_ possible," he mused.

"What is, Mr. Hyrcanus?"

"You can have a confidential agreement with a merchant dealer."

"Certainly." I should have told him that zenny can buy silence nearly as effectively as it can buy talk. Note the "nearly," please.

He nodded and drew breath. Here it comes, I thought. And it did.

"I'm interested in a certain collector's item," he said, as if he'd saved the words for a rainy day. "I'm starting a collection."

"Hmmm." The BlackMoney gambit.

"I want to know if you can help."

He sipped and waited. And I sipped and waited. Like a couple of drinking pecopecos, we sipped in silence.

"Er, can you?" he asked.

"If I can," I countered cagily. For a first-time collector he wasn't doing too badly, and I was becoming distinctly edgy.

"Do you mean Mr. Knuckles didn't explain?"

"He explained you were interested in purchasing guns," I said.

"Nothing else?"

"And that you had, er, sufficient funds."

"But not what it is I'm seeking?"

"No." I put down my cup because my hands were quivering slightly. If it turned flop I'd wring Knuckles neck." "Perhaps you'd better tell me."

"Dueling pistols."

"I guessed that." Eversince dueling was banned by the late King Gustav I, dueling pistols became a primary collector's item. An absolute zenny maker.

"A very special pair."

I cleared my throat, "Which pair, Mr. Hyrcanus?"

He stared at me across the darkened room. "I want the Judas Twins," he said.

My heart sank. With luck, I could catch Knuckles before Holgrehen closes the pub, and annihilate him on the spot for sending me a dummy. A dead deal. No wonder he'd been evasive when I asked him on the phone.

I gazed back at the poor misguided customer. "Did you say the Judas Twins?" I said, hoping I'd misheard.

"The Judas Twins," he affirmed.

_Oh, boy._


End file.
